Emotionally Compromised
by Pearl White
Summary: McCoy becomes tangled in Vulcan realities, post Fall of Vulcan. Humor, drama and romance. Strongly indicated S/U as background premise. Comments welcome, but am not really looking for grueling crit. Mainly want to know if you are having fun.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer. Paramount owns it. I am playing with it. Hopefully in a meaningful fair use sort of way. One can but try.

Emotionally Compromised

Ch. 1

When McCoy first saw her two thoughts collided in his brain, leaving steaming, hissing wreckage in their wake.

Thought one? Oh, shit, there's another Vulcan on board my ship.

Thought two? There are only a few left. So_ why_ is there another Vulcan on board my ship?

Jimmy-boy would not have liked knowing McCoy considered Enterprise his own ship. It was bad enough that Scotty thought that the damned ship only flirted with Kirk but really slept with the Chief Engineer. Jimbo did not need to know that McCoy considered the ship his own because he goddamned owned every last organic molecule aboard her…signed for them, and was held accountable for them, and if that did not make the ship his very own baby he did not know what did. And there, in the middle of his ship, big as life and twice as natural, was a pointy-eared Vulcan sitting in the rec room eating a sandwich and sharing the pieces with a tiny little dog.

He blinked, and looked again.

Vulcan? Check.

Sandwich? Check on that, too.

Tiny little dog? Yup. Probably named Toto, too. Judging by the action in front of him the lady Vulcan did not like crusts, and kept the dog to scarf them up for her. Yeah. Ok. Lady Vulcan…only she looked like she might once have been named Dorothy, long, long ago, and come from Kansas on a tornado-ride. She had a soft, wholesome look: middle-aged, a bit weary, but the sort who kept her chin up and her wits about her and told any cracked blonde in a gauzy bubble that she was not a witch at all. There was something a bit wistful about her, too, like if she could she would click her ruby slippers and go home.

Which brought McCoy back to the second question. Vulcan was dead a year, now. Even after rounding up every stray Vulcan merchant, diplomat, and space jockey there had proven to be less than twenty thousand living Vulcans total in all known Federation space, and most of them were on Kaiidth, the new colony. So what the hell was a tired, travel-worn female Vulcan (and her little dog, too) doing on board his ship?

Damned if he was going to let that question hang there unanswered.

"Hello, mind if I join you," he said, slipping into the seat opposite her without waiting for an answer. "M' name's McCoy. Leonard McCoy. Chief Medical Officer. Glad to meet you. And you are…?" He waited, intentionally radiating the expectation of a response. Solid alpha eye-contact, the kind he used to chivvy Kirk or Spock down to sickbay for a check-up after an away mission.

She raised her brows -- both, he noted, thinking that it was an improvement on Spock's sardonic asymmetric brow-lift. Something seemed to lurk in her dark eyes. Amusement? Impossible, but there it was, as unlikely as that damned little dog pawing her hand for the remainder of her bread. She handed it off to the mutt, while giving a slight though gracious nod.

"Shahtau."

Ooooo-kay. Typical Vulcan: verbally anemic. It was that green blood, it had to be. Time for the next conversational lure… "If you've just been stationed here you need to be sure to set up an appointment for your physical right away. Don't like to let the paperwork get ahead of me." Not that she was dressed in Starfleet regulation anything: Vulcan pants and tunic and head veil all the way.

"I'm afraid I am just a visitor," she said, "but thank you." Her eyes still showed that impossible amusement. He accepted the occasional flash from Spock: the man was half human, after all, and he, Jim and Uhura had all been working to improve his socialization. But this one he would bet was pure Vulcan, so what was she doing looking like somewhere inside she knew damn well he was fishing for information and having a bitchin' good time making him waste bait on her?

"Visitor, huh?" She merely nodded, reaching idly over to rub the scruffy little black terrier behind the ears. "Uh, yeah. Well. ..welcome to the ship? Can I show you around? Help you find anyone in particular?"

Her eyes flicked down to the table. "Thank you. No. I have already found the person I came to see." She picked up her empty plate and glass and stood, wobbling slightly as she tried to deal with the unfamiliar contours of the chair. The dog jumped off the neighboring chair and pranced by her feet. She looked up and met his eyes with a clear, steady gaze. "I am afraid I can't say if I will be here much longer or not. If not, it was good to meet you, Leonard McCoy. If otherwise…I look forward to meeting you again." She turned and moved towards the recycling receptacle, her dog dancing beside her. Then she was walking away, moving with stately dignity across the room, her shoulders straight and her head up…

McCoy could not for the life of him say why the healer's red alert lodged somewhere inside his gut was wailing and whooping and telling him someone was bleeding to death before his very eyes. But he did know this was his ship -- and so long as Shahtau-whoever-the-hell-she-was existed on his ship she was his goddamned Vulcan and he was going to find out what was wrong and why she was in pain, and he was goddamned well going to do something about it. What, however, was another question entirely.

Fortunately he was smarter than a whip and twice as fast, and he could add one and one together and get a respectable total. She had hardly been gone long enough for the door to hiss shut behind her than he was on the horn to Spock demanding a few answers. After all, the coincidence of two Vulcans on one ship had become improbable enough to ensure that there damned near had to be some connection between the two. The first answer he got was a brush-off. But he knew the right buttons to push. When the ship's first officer came off duty an hour later he was met in the turbolift by the ship's Chief Medical Officer, who had no intention of being stonewalled.

"Who she is, Doctor, is none of your business."

"I would bet my bottom dollar on a three legged horse to win the Derby before I would accept that answer, you pig-headed, pointy-eared goon. That woman has some kind of trouble and is hurting bad, and on this ship that means she is my business."

Spock gave him a look so close to absolute zero McCoy figured he needed treatment for frostbite. "Am I to assume you inquire into every minor ailment and ill humor suffered by anyone on this ship, doctor? How do you ever find the time to practice real medicine?"

"Yeah, sure, fine, we established you had sarcasm down to a fine art form months ago…no need to keep proving it. Let's try again. There is a Vulcan woman wandering around this ship with a toxically cute black dog and the weight of the world on her shoulders, looking a little bewildered and a lot miserable. I am sure as hell she is not here to visit Chekov. So from the top: who is your Vulcan guest, Mr. Spock?" Spock's jaw set and he stared unwaveringly at the wall of the lift. McCoy slammed the stop button. Reflex-fast Spock smacked it back on. McCoy slammed it again, this time keeping his palm over the button to avoid getting the two of them caught in a completely childish game of on-off-on. "Come on, damn it. It's obviously a balls-up mess: you're as screwed up about it as she is. Or do I cheat and ask Uhura for a bit of behind the lines intelligence?"

The look Spock shot him then was a blend of supressed rage, pain, and pleading. "You will not speak to Lieutenant Uhura." A silence held between the two men for a moment, and then Spock did the unheard of -- he broke. "Please?" he asked, like a man expecting to be refused and sure it is going to destroy his world. "Please. Do not ask Uhura. She has already been hurt enough."

McCoy had a soft heart…but years of medical practice had taught him that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. "Maybe. If you tell me just what the hell is going on."

Spock drew a deep breath. "Shahtau has been sent by the Vulcan elders to negotiate certain…private matters."

"Private?"

"Private, Doctor. Is that not sufficient information?"

"Private like…um…ok, private like birds and bees private? Like making little Vulcans?"

"Exactly like 'making little Vulcans' as you so eloquently put it. Now, can we end this conversation?"

"Not hardly, son. Not hardly. So Uhura knows about this. Can I place a not-so-long-shot wager on the notion that you didn't tell her about this yourself?"

"Since I did not expect it -- at least not at this time and in this form -- I could hardly have done so. Shahtau, in good faith and with no ill intention, came directly to my quarters to discuss the issue with me, having simply presented her credentials from the elders to the on-duty transporter officer. She intended to respect my privacy and bring the subject up with me alone. Unfortunately the Lieutenant was present in my quarters at the time, and upon realizing our relationship Shahtau did as an honorable woman would -- and proceeded to attempt negotiations with my associate before discussing any further details with me."

McCoy wondered if he would ever, ever have a chance to tell this story to anyone. It was rich beyond compare. "You're telling me that poor woman stood there trying to bargain with Uhura for breeding rights to her prime stallion?"

"Were not the birds and the bees a sufficient biological metaphor, doctor?"

"So -- who won the bidding war?"

"There was no war. Lieutenant Uhura…lost her temper. Shahtau apologized and left. And if I am to have any hope of survival, much less hope of continuing my relationship with Uhura, she will go far away and never return."

"Spock, it's just a shot of sperm. You can come down to sickbay, spend a few minutes in a private room thinking of Uhura and the things you do for your species, I deliver it to Shahtau-from-Kaiidth, and the deed is done."

"No, doctor. It is not. The elders do not simply want to ensure the passing of the genes. They wish to ensure the survival of the culture. For that there must be…families."

"So you are supposed to get married and only then make little Vulcans?"

"Ideally, yes. However as I already have a chosen mate, the elders would accept my taking a Vulcan concubine. It is not optimal, but neither is it unprecedented. And it would provide any children, including any Uhura might have, with a stable Vulcan mother as well as a culturally Vulcan father. Even one-quarter Vulcan children are acceptable, now, and three-quarter are better still. The gene pool is that limited, and the elders that desperate."

"I see. I think. Uhura was not amused?"

"Uhura's reaction beggars my vocabulary."

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. So…who would the lucky concubine be?"

"Shahtau."

McCoy swore. "Sonofa….she's almost old enough to be your mother…pardon the comment, but…"

"She is intelligent, fertile, and will be for many years to come. And she is alive." The look of pain in his eyes expressed volumes of nuance. "The number of fertile women surviving and not occupied in…making little Vulcans… is rather limited. Shahtau has proven both fertile and a good parent."

McCoy leaned back against the wall of the turbolift, crossing his arms and frowning. "She has a family already, then?"

"No, doctor. She once had a family."

The final piece fell into place, and McCoy's mind called back the memory of a short, tired woman with a tiny little dog, widowed, childless, living in exile on a colony planet established to provide a home for a whole lot of baby Vulcans… and trying her hardest to do what was right, under conditions that allowed no "right" and which had to be costing her every bit of courage she had.

Yeah. Bleeding to death.

Sonofabitch.

End Ch.1


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer continues to pertain. No profit, fair use intended.

Emotionally Compromised

Ch. 2

McCoy would later admit that his next move was to leap before he looked. Or, as he put it when feeling a little more self-forgiving, "My Southern chivalry done rose up and bit me in the ass. If you don't believe me I'll drop trou and show you the scars. One set of many." At the time all he was thinking was that somewhere a dark-haired Vulcan dame was in distress, protected only by a dog small enough to sit on a buttermilk biscuit with room leftover for butter and honey. Alone and lost, rattling around the big ship or already beamed back to the space station, forlorn and friendless. Honor demanded he commit rescue upon her. It was one of many life-altering decisions he made while under the influence of rampaging virtue.

The computer found her quickly enough: two Vulcans on the Enterprise, one male mixed-breed, one female purebred…didn't take many seconds to sort that little problem out. He tracked her down in a tiny lounge off of one of the minor Engineering offices, one that served the third deck life support vents. The room wasn't much more than a cubicle, with a small table, a couple of chairs, a dried out portion of a former pizza with one bite out of the tip slowly turning to stone on a plate on the coffee stand, and a beer mug filled with what looked like a wad of cotton swabbing immersed in an unknown liquid, labeled with a sign saying, "Please do not jostle the cellulose nitrate generator: gun cotton goes bang."

Shahtau was sitting on a chair as far away from the mug as possible, with a PADD in one hand. Her dog was curled in a tight ball under her seat, snoring slightly, and Shahtau was sniffling and wiping her nose on a tissue. McCoy gave a moment's worried thought to what she was reading. Her last communication with her lost children? A love letter from her deceased husband…or whatever the hell passed for a love letter on Vulcan? Or maybe just a genetic read-out on the children she might have with Spock if Uhura relented and let the making of little Vulcans commence…

He took one cautious step into the doorway, and knocked gingerly on the frame. He almost hoped she would fail to hear, or choose to ignore him. Instead she looked up, her face shifting from moody reserve to calm…amusement. Again, amusement.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked.

She cocked her head. "No. Nor do I see that I have much say. It is a public space, according to your computer."

"Yeah, well. Not much of a space," he said, looking around the gloomy little cubby. "Better than the residents' lounge where I interned, though." He settled into the remaining chair and leaned his elbows on the table. "I tracked down Spock and forced a confession out of him, so I know why you're here. Doctors almost have to be nosy on some level. I'd apologize but I wouldn't mean it."

"Then please, spare yourself the effort," she replied, with apparent seriousness marred only by that eternal glimmer of humor. "I hope you didn't do him much harm."

"Harm?"

"Spock. When you forced the confession."

"Oh, that. No. No, I just appear to have a genius for rattling his cage. But in my medical opinion it keeps his brain from calcification, so I consider it therapeutic. If I were in private practice I'd charge him for the service."

"Ah, but if you were in private practice you wouldn't be able to impose therapy. He would no doubt turn down your services and die with solid bone from one ear to the other. At least with both of you in Starfleet you can refuse to allow him to be a complete bonehead."

He snorted, and looked at her in true amazement. "Lady, you are _funny_. That's cheating."

The brows went up and a near-smile glimmered at mouth and eyes. "Cheating?"

"You, ma'am, are Vulcan, and are not supposed to be funny."

At that a true smile twisted her mouth, but not a particularly happy one. "A virtue among humans is a vice among Vulcans." She lifted the PADD she still held in one hand. "I have low tastes and questionable personal habits. One more reason I was chosen for this particular venture."

"So…what are you reading, then?"

"Anne of Green Gables. I find the final 'e' in her name and her ability to fall into error with the best of intentions…a comfort." She sighed, and put the PADD on the table between them. "Tell me, Leonard McCoy, are that poor boy and his nice young woman going to be all right, or have I completely banjaxed their partnership?"

"Banjaxed?"

She shrugged. "Once, what seems like a million years ago, I taught human literature at a very minor academy in Shi'kar. My English vocabulary is the result. Now, about --"

"'That poor boy and his nice young woman.'" McCoy shook his head. "You take the cake. I can't tell you for sure. But I suspect from what I have seen of those two they're going to find a way to patch things up. Pragmatists, both of 'em. Or maybe it's just they have their priorities straight."

"Unfortunately for all of us, the elders will not agree with your assessment." She pondered the fact, and sighed. "I am afraid that I will be sent right back here again after I report. Or, worse…they could send Tsla."

"Tsla?"

"Younger than I am. Far less comfortable with human ways…or, really, anything new. Very low diplomacy rating. However, she is among the few likely alternates available for the position…"

"Concubine?"

Again the uneasy smile twisted her lips. "No. Or yes. We prefer to think of it as 'Mother to the Race.' It is slightly less daunting than 'brood mare' or 'walking womb.' Let it never be said of the women of Kaiidth that we were not willing to make ourselves useful. In this case the number of women the elders are willing to toss at a half-blood who refuses to come lend a…hand…in our recovery is limited to a few of us whom they believe capable of reproduction, but also unlikely to object too loudly to what is seen as a purgatorial life sentence among the unwashed of the Federation."

"The humility of Vulcans never ceases to amaze me."

"Yes. Well."

"So -- for some reason they think teaching a few courses in Shakespeare and Danielle Steele means that you're going to be tickled about being sent…here?"

"Oh, that and a few other little things. I am, shall we say, among the lesser of Surak's followers. Or, more honestly, I am simply dreadful at the disciplines. And I have been … other than a wife previously. A mistake made in youth with lasting consequences. Thus the wise ones have determined that I am a perfect match for a young man only slightly more than half my age. To their credit they were not fully aware of the depth of his current commitment. Which didn't make this afternoon any easier." Her voice was getting tighter and tighter…then she came to a dead stop and drew in a deep breath and rose, pacing uneasily in the tiny room. The dog woke up and trotted along side, looking eagerly up and her and wagging its tail. She turned on her heel and glowered across the room. "To be brutally honest, I am an emotional mess by the standards of my people, and thus considered a wonderful match for a brilliant and promising young officer of a good family who unfortunately was disbarred from a more respectable alliance as a result of his clearly unworthy maternal relations." She took one more step backwards…and the mug perched behind her slipped slowly from the edge of the coffee stand.

McCoy moved very, very fast.

He caught the mug.

The dog stood, yapping merrily at the wonderful new game some nice human had decided to play. He darted towards McCoy and away. Shahtau picked him up quickly and tucked him under her arm.

"Nice catch," she said, very quietly.

"I should try out for the major leagues," McCoy responded, wiping his hair out of his eyes with his free hand.

"Leonard McCoy, can you tell me precisely what 'gun cotton' is?"

"Just call me…hell, just call me Bones. And I have no idea. It goes 'bang.'"

"Ah," she said, still painfully quiet. "Just like my life, then." And, very slowly, she folded to the ground and held the little dog in her arms, her head down. McCoy could not tell if she was crying or not: the dog was licking her too fast to be sure. Then she gave a hiccupping little sob, resolving the question entirely.

It finally became completely clear to him. By the standards of his own people this woman was quiet, reserved, witty, and endowed with amazing self-control and resilience. She had survived too much for him to easily believe, with what appeared to be both grace and humor. But by the standards of her own people she was the woman who dances on tables at parties wearing a lampshade and not much more -- without having to get drunk first. Or the crazy if beloved aunt who laughed too loud at holodramas and cried her way through every wedding. The result was that some wizened old Vulcan rat-bastard had chosen to kill two birds with one stone and insult both her and Spock by shipping her out as, yes, a walking womb because Spock was just barely good enough for her, and she was just barely good enough for Spock…and Uhura frankly did not enter into the equation. Which, of course, had only ended in one more painful blow to a strong spirit. The result being that the woman was doing the first truly sensible thing he had ever seen a Vulcan do, and having a damned good cry about it.

"You know," he said as gently as he could, "I have a bottle of aged bourbon that would go pretty well with that crying jag. If you think it would help."

She looked up, then, and gave him a very crooked smile. "My word, you really are a brilliant doctor, aren't you?"

"I'll do for an old country hack." He poked around in the cabinet space under the coffee stand, and found a bundle of disposable napkins. He handed them to her, and watched as she mopped her face dry from tears and dog drool. "What's with the little black mop, anyway?"

She patted the creature on the head and sighed. "I was on Earth when…anyway. It was a long time before I was ready to go to Kaiidth. This fellow was at the school I had gone to for some research -- a stray. He…I don't know. It was just easier to let him stay with me."

"Understood," McCoy said, having spent most of the period of his divorce hearings feeding a mouse that had gnawed its way into the kitchen of the studio apartment he'd been living in. Sad was bad. Sad and lonely was worse.

"What's his name?"

"Toto. Because it seemed like I wasn't in Kansas anymore."

"I should have known."

End Ch. 2


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers. Fair Use intended.

Emotionally Compromised

Ch. 3

The lights in Spock's quarters were dim; a dull red glow that reminded him of Vulcan. The incense burned on the altar table, and Spock knelt, meditating eyes-open, allowing probabilities to cascade through his mind and away in a state between thought and no-thought. He heard the door open. Knew it was Nyota: no one else had been keyed to enter without his permission. He tried to stay in trance. He would not wish to admit it, but he was afraid. His last encounter with her had been of her final, scorching words before she stormed from these quarters earlier, having sent Shahtau away with both efficiency and passion. At the time he had not been sure she would ever return. Now he was afraid to discover she had returned only to tell him she had made the logical choice and determined he could go to hell, and his entire species with him.

Unfortunately such thoughts did not allow for trance. Still he knelt, unwilling to open the door to rejection.

He heard Nyota moving behind him, heard a soft chuckle. So sweet…such a sweet tone!

"Oh, lover," she murmured, "you're faking it, now. You can't fool me."

He felt the smile she was always able to trick out of him. "I am, then, still your…lover?"

"Yes, love."

"In spite of…"

"Yes, love. I can't say I like everything about the situation. But it's…logical. And I don't want to help extinguish a species. She can stay."

"No, she can't," Spock said, firmly, as he rose from the floor. He moved across the room, stood before this woman who always surprised him with her intelligence, her sweetness, and her honor. "I have sent word to Kaiidth. I will not agree. If they want genetic material they may have it with my blessing. But they may not rearrange our lives thus. I will not have it so."

She cocked her head, letting one hand come up to cradle the curve of his jaw. "Spock, you can't do that. They'll either fight -- or deny you. You _need _your people. And they need you."

"I have made the choice once before, Nyota. I have made it again."

He did not choose to comment on how bitterly the elders might fight. Did not choose to think too hard about the suppressed anger of the leaders of a species so riven already by the tragedy of destruction and helplessness they suffered. He had already made his decision. So instead he simlply leaned down and gently kissed his beloved, rejoicing that, in this, they were alike: loyal beyond words. He would be loyal to her until he died, or time ended.

He would have it so.

***

***

***

"So Jim's there with this six-foot-three Genagari sex-pot in the lab supply room, and I'm at the front of the class trying to pretend I have no idea, because I'm the TA and the professor has me filling in for him on basic emergency first aid because God knows the cadets are gonna need it someday, and every few seconds Jim's arm is there in the doorway dropping a new item of clothing on the floor, and the next thing I know I'm explaining to the class how to tourniquet a leg injury with red silk stockings, which was the last thing he dropped."

She didn't laugh…Vulcan had imprinted that much control on her. She never laughed, but the laugh was there anyway, just silent, like a cat's silent meow. She tipped the glass of bourbon and branch in a mimed toast, and took a sip. "And you say this is the man in charge of this whole ship?"

"He's grown up. A little," McCoy said. "Don't ever let him take you bar hopping on shore leave, though: he still gets into more barroom brawls and picks up more hot women than is good for anything but his shock-and-awe factor in the fleet. He has a reputation to maintain."

"I doubt I will have the opportunity," she said, her voice seeming to float in the air of his office, "and if I do, I doubt that it would be appropriate for the first officer's….woman… to go bar hopping with the captain, leaving the children to cry in their cradles."

"Ah, Schatzi, you gotta get out of this. Believe me, it's stupid. What you want to do is stay here just to get away from those po' faced elders of yours, but forget the whole thing with Spock. Hell, the man's got a life. Tell the old buggers to leave him alone and let him live it. And you, too."

She looked into the amber bourbon as though she could find an answer there. "I should leave him alone?"

"No, dammit, you should _live_! Schatzi, dammit, you deserve better than this."

"Who does not?" she asked, far more sober than her three shots of bourbon would have justified. "I am afraid this is not about deserving. It is about…the end of dreams and the beginning of actions. There are no dreams left, Leonard McCoy. Just duties." She put the glass down on his desk, and leaned back in her chair with her head dropped back and her eyes closed, holding the little dog in the turn of her arm like a baby. He could imagine it easily, his memories of his ex-wife with Joanna blending with an imagined past in which Shahtau had held children of her own.

Two shots in he had realized he was in big trouble. Such very, very big trouble. Every time she made him laugh -- which was often -- and every time he realized she was seeing right through his ploys and silently laughing at him -- which was even more often because the bourbon brought out the blarney in him -- he wanted to lean across and find out if kissing her would solve the world's problems or at least send them yelping into the shadows for the night.

Not good, son, he thought. Oh, so very not good. All right, every man dreams of at least one or two flings with a mysterious, tragic older woman. McCoy, being a dyed in the wool romantic for all he hid it under twenty feet of sarcasm and gloom, had dreamed that dream more than once, along with dreams of sweet young innocents and lithe, tawny tigers between the sheets.

Hell, might as well face it, he thought. I am doomed to chronic heterosexuality. It is a curse I must bear.

Preferably not alone, mind you.

Pretending to be idly fiddling with a PADD on his desktop he punched in the figures for comparative aging rates. His current age was mid-thirties, he thought, to her apparent mid-to-late forties. But, bless Vulcan age differentials, when he was in his mid-to-late forties she would still look…in her mid-to-late forties! And when he was old and doddering she would still look…

Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Or at least gorgeous to him. But then he had discovered an unexpected fondness for short, brown haired, tired looking Vulcan women who were more wholesome than exotic in spite of the ears and the brows.

I am over my limit, he thought. Two shots of aged Kentucky bourbon and a bad case of wanting to play the hero over my limit. I am no longer safe at any speed.

He stood and closed the decanter, saying, "I'm afraid it's bedtime for little doctors, ma'am. Got to work in the morning and try to live up to my own ideals of clean living and bright-eyed energy on duty."

Shahtau stood, too, cradling her dog. "Wise. And I must beam back down to the station and attempt to determine whether to call Kaiidth and indicate I am returning, or attempt to discuss this issue with Lieutenant Uhura one more time."

"I tell you what, I'll beam down with you and walk you to your room."

"I am afraid there is no point, Leonard McCoy. I have no room. I was intending to remain awake until this interlude is complete. I can sleep on the return to Kaiidth."

He nearly strangled as he held back the immediate offer to let her sleep in his quarters. He knew perfectly well where his own libido would try to take that. Instead he said, simply, "There's a spare bed in isolation. You'd have privacy. Why don't you sleep there until either Spock or I can arrange for you to use a guest room?"

"I do not want to intrude on Spock and the Lieutenant's territory. They deserve a sense of safety here in their home."

"Dammit, woman, I promise you, neither one of 'em thinks sickbay or a guest room is 'their territory.' Give it a rest, and yourself one, too. I mean, come on. You even get a really tacky nightgown with a breeze in the back, and a shower in the morning. All right?"

She gave another silent little laugh, and nodded. "Very well. Your suggestion is logical."

"Good. Glad to know you can see a bit of common horse sense. Now come on this way. Room's down the corridor and to your left. Lavatory and shower off the entrance." He keyed open the door and added the code that would let her come and go as she wished, recognizing her bio readings. He stood to one side to let her pass, then smiled as she turned. "'Night, Schatzi. Sleep well. See you in the morning."

"And you…Leonard. Good night, Leonard McCoy."

He nodded and left, walking briskly down the corridor.

He got halfway down, and stopped.

"Dammit."

He turned and prowled back, stalking into the room.

She jumped at the shhhsh of the door, and looked at him with big, questioning eyes.

He sighed, and stood in front of her. "Look, Schatzi. I don't have a clue what the hell is going to happen, and I am probably just making things worse. But…if you _dare _try to tell me you're going to forget all this because I was drunk, well, you're wrong, because I'd do it stone cold sober in the middle of a fire-fight."

He slid one hand along the nape of her neck, cradling her skull, then met her eyes and waited an eternal moment to see if she would draw back or object.

She didn't. She stared, but seemed neither shocked nor upset. Almost as though her own heart was hovering in free fall, the way his seemed to be. He leaned in and placed a kiss on her lips.

She met the kiss. It was nearly chaste on both sides. Nearly. Gentle, pensive. They stood that way, and then drew back. He nodded, almost surly with the sweetness of it. "Well, that was fine. Pretty successful on this side, anyway. And just so you know, if we can get this damned crap worked out I would like to do that again. You understand? I am not leaving because I didn't like it. But if I do anything more we are so screwed. Literally. Now go to sleep. Doctor's orders."And he spun and stormed out at full warp, muttering, and wishing he could stay.

***

***

Captain James T. Kirk gave his head a shake, much as a swimmer does to clear water from his ears. "I must need another cup of coffee. I just can't have heard you right. Try again, slooooowly, Bones. And this time less dammits and more nouns and verbs, ok?" He was pacing his quarters dressed in a pair of tighty whities and not much more, shaving with a depilator, drinking coffee, and looking fairly confused.

McCoy couldn't blame him. He hitched his butt on the edge of the table to one side of the room. "Ok, from the top: the Vulcan elders at Kaiidth want Spock to make little baby Vulcans. They want them raised within a Vulcan family, so they want -- well, they wanted Spock to marry this woman Shahtau. But since he and Uhura are an item they want him to take Shahtau as a concubine. Only Shahtau's already messed up from losing her family, and they're insulting as hell -- to her and to Spock, for what it's worth. And I think she should just tell them to take a long walk off a short pier and stay with m… with us. On the Enterprise."

"Bones, this is a working ship. Not a shelter for little lost Vulcan hotsies."

"She isn't a hotsie. She's a _lady_. Too old for Spock and deserves better than to be farmed out for breeding purposes. Not a hotsie. Not a totsie, either," McCoy grumped.

"It's still a working ship. And I still don't get any of it. Do the Vulcan elders think Starfleet lets us keep our favorite squeezes on board? Which, by the way and if you asked me, which no one ever does, would be great for morale, mind you….Anyway, she can't stay on board. Not if she marries Uhura…I mean Spock, and not if she is a concubine and not if she tells everyone to go get screwed and just leaves the whole thing for a bad deal. The only married couples we have on board are Starfleet officers on both sides. Or is she going to enlist?"

There had to be something she could do as a noncom, McCoy thought. Damned if he knew what. Unless Kirk wanted to learn something about Oz or Danielle Steele. On the other hand maybe the fact she couldn't stay and play house the way the elders seemed to expect would get her out of this mess. He added it to his mental list of escape clauses, then frowned. "Jim? You follow current events more closely than I do. Just how much clout do the Vulcan elders have since Vulcan went phoomp and proved that space really does suck?"

That apparently hit whatever switch existed in James Kirk's head that shunted him from smartass professional delinquent to Starfleet Academy genius. He paused, depilator in one hand, cup in the other, and frowned. "That depends on what you're talking about, Bones. Economically? Rich as sin. Most of the planet had holdings in the inter-Federation banking system, and the Federation Council declared the survivors sole inheritors of all the estates. So….rich. And they have a lot of moral leverage. I mean, come on, they were founding fathers already, and the great wise guys of the universe and all that, and now they get to be victims, too. In terms of representation, though? They're down to one courtesy rep on the council, and that's just because no one could quite stand telling them they didn't have enough population to rate a rep of their own. The colony should have been part of a regional election and shared a rep with twenty other colonial planets. But…I mean, they're _Vulcan_ and who's going to tell them they can't even have their own rep thanks to Nero?"

"So if Spock and Shahtau tell the elders to stuff it up their bony Vulcan asses they can't really _do _anything about it?"

Kirk looked at Bones like he was mentally deficient. "You want Spock -- our Spock -- to tell his only surviving people to get stuffed? Tell his father and his elders to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? He wouldn't. He couldn't. I mean, he could, but… Come on. Not happening."

"Yeah, but if it did: it's not like they can make hell for us all, is it?"

"Bones, they're _Vulcans_. If they want to make you miserable they have the brains, the brawn and the brass balls to pull it off."

McCoy closed his eyes, thinking of three people who'd already been made miserable enough. "Damn. There just has to be some way out of this. Wish I knew what it was."

End Ch. 3


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer. Paramount owns. Profit is nonexistent. Fair use is intended in all respects.

Emotionally Compromised

Ch. 4

In the morning Shahtau rose, cleaned the puddle and mess left by a dog left too long with no good options, showered and ran her clothing through the 'fresher. She then walked sedately out through sickbay, trying not to look either out of place or as though she expected to see the ship's Chief Medical Officer anywhere.

After all, she did not.

Regardless of his comments the night before she expected the young doctor to have had time to realize, in sobriety, what had escaped him in the quiet of the previous evening. She was far older than he, would live far longer, and she could not join him in his life regardless of whether she might wish to or not. It was in all ways illogical. Indeed, how could the impossible be anything but illogical?

There was no point in even asking herself what she might want, if she were free to want. She owned no such freedom. Indeed, it was only since the death of Vulcan that she could even have been said to properly own herself. Prior to that she had been the property of her katelau-skilsu, the man who had won victory at the time of her mating.

That Saael, Kalifee S'haile, her master, had been a good man and the father of her children, who had honored her and supported her even after he married a proper wife more happily in later years, did not and never could change the fact that she had challenged, and her champion had failed and died. It did not change that the man who had died had not loved her, but had fought to please her father, who had repented his choice of bonded mate for his daughter. It did not change the fact that her father objected not for the sake of his daughter, but for the political associations the marriage would bring with it. Saael had been a human-lover, her father one of the exclusionists. That had been reason enough to demand his daughter call Koon-ut-kalifee.

She was the youngest of his many children, named Shahtau to indicate that he wished for no more. He had bargained well, bonding his children into the status structure of Vulcan with precision, finding allies, finding those who would give him and his causes power. That being the case he felt no great loss denying her when she was lost to the challenge. Better if her champion had won…but still an acceptable outcome, as she had never achieved any particular standing or virtue in any case.

She had chosen never to feel guilt upon realizing that her life as a possession was, nonetheless, more satisfying than her years of theoretical freedom. She had borne three children to her Kalifee S'haile, and if he had never loved her, nor she him, they had both loved their children. She had been able to work, and he had allowed her to retain her own earnings. In the end she had considered both he and his true wife…friends.

Now they were gone. All gone. Saael, Tanat. The children, both hers and theirs: tall Palu, who had just entered the Science Institute; brilliant M'natha, who had refused to bond in childhood and who was training to pass Kholinar; Trath, who raced from sun-up to sundown, never still and never patient, but always finding time for friends. Jariat, Tanat's oldest, who had once gotten into a school fight defending Palu's honor, swearing that he was her brother even if their mothers were not the same. Shahtau had never been able to say what she knew to be true: that she adored Jariat with a passion fully equal to that she felt for her own children. But, then, she had never been free to admit to that passion, either. She was still Vulcan, still a follower of Surak, no matter how poor her discipline. Some things could not be said.

She knew she would love new children, also. But this, too, could not be said: that she did not particularly want to love children, ever again. That she did not want to be owned, or second in status, or bound by her honor ever again. What she wanted was irrelevant. She could bear children: therefore she would bear, and she would treasure what she birthed. But…

It was better never to admit to herself, ever, that one sweet kiss in a silent room was more violently tempting than a thousand children born to the future of the Vulcan race. Better not to admit because she was wise. One kiss could never support the future she faced, nor was it likely that its sweetness could survive the reality that would come if she tried to gain more. It was a night dream in cool, lush winter, when the flowers of Vulcan once bloomed and the world had become briefly gentle. Flowers that had seldom lasted more than a few days, then died.

It would be cruel to wish for more: cruel to him, cruel to her. He was so young. So very young. And so very, very kind…

She ordered fruit for breakfast, and hot tea: things that had grown familiar to her in the months on Earth following Vulcan's death. For Toto she ordered scrambled eggs and toast. She ate at a table to one side of the rec room, her back turned to the entrance to avoid eye contact. She wanted to be alone. Instead she watched Toto gulp the food from the plate, lick the surface completely clean.

"Excuse me. I think I owe you an apology."

Shahtau looked up, half fearful, into the face of Spock's intended, Uhura. A beautiful woman, as Tanat had been, and dark like Tanat and Saael, too, with the same dark eyes.

"No apology is needed or expected, Lieutenant Uhura. It is I who apologize. Were I free to act only on my own desires, I would merely bless your bonding and leave you to peace and a long life together. I am driven by imperatives beyond my will, and, yet…I can hope that the elders will allow you that peace."

"May I join you? I think we need to talk."

"I think you are correct. Please, do sit. Do not let Toto lick you: he will not stop once he starts. He is a very bold creature."

Uhura laughed -- no, giggled, as the dog squiggled and wriggled and tried to wash her face. "Bold is right. He is so cute, though!" She chucked the dog under the chin, then gently cupped her palm over his muzzle, holding him away from her and preventing him from licking. "You are just a love-bug, aren't you? Too cute! Oh, you are too cute!" Toto wagged and wagged his agreement, then reluctantly allowed himself to be curled into Uhura's lap to settle. "Where did you get him?"

"Earth. After Vulcan died. He asked very few questions, you see."

Uhura's eyes went dark. "I understand," she said. "Sometimes that's easier."

"Much."

The two shared a glance that made Shahtau feel all the more as though she was once again with Tanat, sister-mistress and friend. Uhura glanced down and back. "I am afraid we have a problem."

"That would seem an accurate assessment of our circumstances."

"No, I mean we have a new problem." Uhura looked around the rec room, filled with breakfasting crewmembers. She looked back at Shahtau. "How well do you put up with noise?"

"Excuse me?"

"How well do you put up with noise? There's a rec room off of one of the engineering levels that is just plain loud. Spock hates it -- it gives him headaches. But we can talk there and no one will hear, and it's less likely to attract attention that sneaking around or hiding in my quarters would."

"I believe, then, that under the circumstances I can endure the volume," Shahtau said, realizing that, yes, this woman had more on her mind than just an apology and an ultimatum or two.

The two walked together through the ship, the dog skipping along with them happy as a dog can be. Shahtau hoped that he would not use a corner or wall for a latrine. It would be embarrassing, if reparable. Fortunately the little dog behaved. Soon she would have to take him down to the space station, if only to allow him to run in one of the green belts that helped maintain the atmosphere. And, truly, it would give her a time away from a ship rapidly becoming full of emotional pressures she doubted she could continue to face with any semblance of Vulcan calm.

When they reached the loud rec room, humming with a steady drone of engines and pipes and moving machinery, Uhura added one more pressure.

"This is not intended to be a judgment about you: you have to understand, Spock and I know this isn't your fault. But…Spock sent word to Kaiidth that he was rejecting their plans for us all. He is willing to donate sperm, or gene samples. But he wants us to be left alone."

Shahtau leaned against a rail overlooking the engine room below. "What he wants will be challenged. Not by me, but by the elders. They have more candidates and much determination. They have also reached a state of believing that the ends justify any means."

Uhura snorted. "C'mon. They're Vulcan. There have to be a few limits left."

Shahtau met her eyes. "A few. Fewer than you would think. They are not above exerting pressure to destroy your career and Spock's. Nor would they shrink from exiling the Future Elder, nor Sarek, in an attempt to coerce Spock's cooperation. You must understand: by the standards of traditional Vulcan culture, they are mad. Perhaps we all are."

"Excuse me?"

The look Uhura gave made it clear that she suspected that if anyone were crazy it was her companion. Shahtau sighed, unsure if she could communicate the basic truths of the situation to a human… a human who might feel more compassion and understanding of what had occurred when Vulcan died than most, but who still could not understand what it was for Vulcans, and especially for the elders, to have suffered that death.

"Vulcans are many things. But, as a race, we are not _humble_. Humility is illogical. And we were not humble for our world, either. Regardless of any astrophysical truths, to my people Vulcan was the center of the universe, our race the beacon to the other races, our philosophy the guiding light that would bring the universe into sanity: _we_ were the narrative that gave the entire nature of existence meaning.

The elders may not have considered themselves infallible, but they might as well have: they believed that there was no problem that the unified wisdom and knowledge of Vulcan could not overcome in time. Unfortunately they were given no time. Their wisdom was proven completely useless. And their future, such as it is, was rescued by a handful of humans and the half-breed spawn of a race traitor…or at least that is how some of them have and always will see it. There is no stable point left in their understanding of themselves, their people, or the universe itself. None. Yet in that condition of complete instability they are nonetheless required to choose for the good of the race. Please, tell me: when there is no longer a stable point of anchorage, yet the obligations remain, infinite and demanding, on what basis do you make a decision? The Vulcans who live, for the most part, are making decisions based on the complete loss of all rational structure, and the choices they are making are in many ways quite mad. Logical, and practical. But mad."

"You don't appear to be all that mad."

"I am a very poor Vulcan, as such things are understood. And I did not suffer the loss of my world in a matter of minutes, without warning. Not as the elders did. On Earth I heard barely the echo of the deaths of a billion katras. And, yet…I, too, am mad. You cannot lose all we have lost and not be a little mad."

"I see," Uhura said. "You're all emotionally compromised." The look in her eyes spoke of a hell she had seen, as real as any Shahtau had experienced.

"Exactly."

"You're right. That is one big problem."

"I believe that is what I said."

The communication band pinged.

"Uhura here."

"Lieutenant, there's a private call coming in from Kaiidth. Commander Spock said you should come up and hear it in the briefing room -- and to bring someone named Shahtau up with you when you come."

"Acknowledged," Uhura said, and closed the link. The two women looked at each other, equally grim.

"Well? What are we gonna do about that?"

"I believe we are going to fight. Together. For us all," Shahtau said, hoping that hope was not simply further insanity.

End Ch. 4


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer. Paramount owns it. I attempt to play in the Fair Use sandbox.

Emotionally Compromised

Ch. 5

It was nearly evening, ship-time, before McCoy found Shahtau again.

She wasn't on-ship, though. She was on-station. Which meant McCoy had to beam over -- an action that never left him all bright and chipper and filled with tra-la-la and hey-nonny-nonny.

"Y' _do _know I arranged a room for you on the Enterprise, don't you?" he said, arms crossed as he confronted her. She was sitting on a park bench in a green belt. She had been watching Toto run after one of the pervasive rats that had followed man into space and taken up whatever niches were available -- in this case the rat seemed to think it might be a squirrel or a pigeon.

That was all she had been doing until McCoy materialized a few feet away, looked around till he spotted her, and stomped on over.

"No," she replied, reasonably. "It will make things much more convenient, though. I'm going to be with you awhile longer."

He looked more dour than ever. "You worked things out with Uhura and Spock, then?"

She frowned. "I suppose. We are in alliance. But I am afraid the Enterprise is going to be forced to remain here at the space station for an indefinite period of time." She didn't look pleased.

Unfortunately McCoy, being tra-la-la deficient himself, failed to note the symptoms of incipient death by depressive collapse. "What 'indefinite period of time'? Until you…until I get to congratulate you all on an incoming generation of green blooded Spock-spawn?"

"Well that would be one resolution to the current situation," she replied, seeming to miss the acid of his reaction entirely. She put her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and stared down at the toes of her travel boots. "I am not sure it would be a better resolution than many others. But it would be significantly better than I suspect I am going to get." She sat in silence for a moment, and then added, "It has been an exceptionally difficult day."

"Tell me about it. I don't know about yours, but _mine _has been spent dealing with an outbreak of a new strain of Andorean mumps, thanks to one of the doctors here on the station catching a patient who was chock full of virus. Full scale epidemiological red alert throughout the quadrant. Testing crew members to see if any had come in contact. Working with all the med crews locally to develop containment plans. You know if you get the stuff your gonads swell up like avocados and the insides turn just as green and mushy. Same with your neck glands, but that just hurts like hell. The gonad thing can leave you sterile. Just so you know how much I care, I thought about giving you a case just long enough to let you opt out of the elder's Plan B-for-Breeding program…but decided you deserved better." He managed to make it sound like he regretted the decision. He also made it pretty clear he thought he held the winning hand in a game of winner-take-all Rotten Day Poker.

He was not prepared to have her look up, suddenly hopeful. "Oh, could you?" she asked. "That might solve everything. Or, no," she added, and slumped down again. "I'd be fine, but that poor boy and Nyota would still have to deal with the elders, and they'd just send Tsla or worse." She thought about it, and then said tentatively, "Damn."

He never did know if it was the "damn" or his own outrage that she was even remotely willing to consider contracting Andorian Mumps just to get out of her situation that finally forced him to realize she was as depressed as he was grouchy. "Damn? I didn't know Vulcans swore."

"We don't, generally. But humans seem to get such a lot of comfort out of it, I thought I would try. I must be doing something wrong, though. You seem to enjoy it much more than I did."

He sighed, and squatted on his heels, looking at her in dismay. "Ah, hell, Schatzi. That just screws the pooch. Unless I'm completely blind my guess is you had an even worse day than I did…which sucks because I don't get to feel righteous _and _I have to feel sorry for you."

She quirked her eyebrows high. "'Screws the pooch'?"

"Nothin' to do with that black mop -- and you'd better call him back or that rat is going to have puppy chow for dinner, and I don't mean chow for puppies I mean chow of puppies. It's just a figure of speech, Schatzi. Like 'takes the cake' only it pretty much always means that bad just got a whole lot worse."

"Then, yes, I believe my day has 'screwed the pooch'," she said, fishing in the folds of her tunic. She pulled out a small ball, whistled until she caught Toto's attention, then tossed the ball in a direction well away from the rat. The little terrier went bounding after it, searching for it in the long grass at the verge of the green belt. "Without first consulting with me, Spock sent a message to the elders on Kaiidth refusing to take part in their, what did you call it? B-for-Breeding program? In return they have filed a formal accusation of treason against him, have demanded that the Enterprise be held up until they can come and hold a hearing, and are threatening to lay associated charges against anyone believed to be 'aiding, abetting, or giving comfort.' I believe that they might consider you, me, Nyota, your captain, and possibly every living thing Spock has ever come in contact with to qualify for suspicion on those terms. Oh -- they are debating whether the appropriate penalty is death or life imprisonment."

"You are joking, aren't you? Vulcans are non-violent, logical, and, and…."

She met his eyes and he suddenly realized she was not just depressed, she was furious. "Vulcans, and I include myself, are a bunch of barely civilized madmen a mere centimeter from ripping your lungs out for the way your hair is combed. And that was before Vulcan died. Len, unless I have missed some vital element of Earth history, you ought to be able to understand that when a cataclysm the magnitude of Vulcan's destruction occurs a certain amount of paranoia, reactive hysteria, acting out, and general mayhem is likely to ensue. Consider it to be ensuing here, now, and in wrap-around holovision."

To which he responded in his inimitable genius fashion, "You called me 'Len.'"

"I think you have failed to understand the true significance of what I just said."

"No, I got it: Vulcans are crazy, the elders are setting up torture chambers and planning witch hunts, and you called me 'Len.'"

Toto trotted up carrying his ball, which he dropped exactly halfway between McCoy and Shahtau. McCoy absently picked it up and tossed it over his shoulder, sending the terrier off on another hunt. The smile on his face was quite obviously completely unassociated with the dog.

Shahtau sighed. "Perhaps you could tell me which of those has the highest priority rating in your world?"

"You called me 'Len.'"

"It is your name."

"Yeah. But I _knew _you were just jerking my chain with all that 'Leonard McCoy' business. Even Vulcans aren't that literal minded. I just…I figured you weren't ever gonna let down the joke and call me…just…" The words he wanted to say -- that the intimacy of his own, real name, not 'Bones' or the friendly joke she had made of his full name, was as heady as a double shot of high proof whiskey taken straight up -- were too dangerous to say, even now. Maybe especially now.

She put her hands over her face. "Oh, Len. Don't you understand? Spock and Nyota and my womb and I are in the middle of what may turn out to be the biggest diplomatic disaster of the past five hundred years or more. I do not see any way out of it that leaves any of us with our lives or reputations intact -- or that leaves my people with even a shard of respect or honor. Compared to this my affection for you is of remarkably little importance."

"To everyone but you and me. And did you really just say you have affection for me?"

"You realize I feel affection for Toto, too, and he is not only a dog, but neutered?"

"It's a place to start. I gotta admit I hope to work my way up from there…"

"Len, you have only known me a day. This is not love, it is infatuation."

"Yeah. I hope to work my way up from that, too."

She stood and strode down the walk, whistling for Toto, leaving McCoy to scramble to his feet and hurry after her. He had no sooner brought himself up even with her than she began to speak.

"Leonard McCoy, there are times, places, and reasons for not giving in to one's emotions…and rules of wisdom that indicate when one is being a fool. Among those rules is to never, ever become dangerously involved with a healer when he thinks you are in need of healing -- and for a healer to never, ever allow himself to become…emotionally… involved with a patient. It is too easy to confuse the nature of healing with the nature of the bonds of true relationship. Further, it is too easy to build the storm of injury into a relationship, making it impossible to maintain balance unless a level of pain and despair is held constant. Hurt and comfort are quite addictive, but they constitute a terrible basis for a long-term bond."

He pushed on a bit faster until he was ahead of her, and turned into her path, reaching for her shoulders. Stopping her, he shook her gently. "I know that, sugar. Really. I do. I know this is the wrong time, and I know I have to stay back right now…just the way I knew I had to walk away last night. But come on, darlin', at least let me hope a little."

"Len, you are going to wake up some morning and realize you have made the most terrible mistake."

"Maybe. Lord knows I've done it before. But tell me, if we get through this, and maybe get through a bit more than this -- say wait a couple months to see how the dust settles? -- and you got a recorded letter from me…would you be happy about it?"

"I am Vulcan. Vulcans are not 'happy'."

"Hell you say." He shook his head and sighed. "Ok. Let it go for now. You've got enough on your plate. Just think about it, Schatzi, ok?" She hesitated, then nodded, briefly. "Good. And you'll let me be your friend while this goes down?"

She nodded again.

They walked silently together for a time.

"Len?" she said, eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Please listen. You are not -- now -- in love with me. You are infatuated, but you do not actually know me. I am not…I do not yet know you, either. What we share, and I will not deny we do share something, is at best a prelude, and at worst an illusion built out of loneliness and hope mingled with minor appreciation. Would you consider this a fair assessment?"

He stomped along beside her, wishing he could break into full Southern-gentleman verses of poetry, convincing them both that he was in love, pure love, love incomparable, love divine. Unfortunately he was a pessimist, a realist, and too damned honest for his own good. After a minute he sighed. "Yeah. Fair enough."

"Good. Then you will understand my caution. But…if we do find a way out, and we do have time to think, and understand ourselves better, and at some point I receive a recorded letter from you…then yes. I would be happy."

Unable to find a word to say, he slipped his hand into hers.

Her fingers wrapped around his and held on.

It was enough. Even after they beamed up he still felt a bit of tra-la-la and hey-nonny-nonny.

***

***

***

These are the truths that cannot be said, the feelings as tightly guarded as a Vulcan's passions:

The tears shed at a father's slow and brutal death, tied to a machine that would not allow him to die properly. More tears shed over years at the many lives lost, in spite of the best care McCoy could provide. More, still -- a river of tears -- cried in long, humid summer nights waiting for the divorce he knew he'd earned to conclude, praying it would come, praying it would never come. The shame and the anger at the mistakes he had made but could not bring himself to apologize for, because life is hard and love rare and kindness a grace when it is given freely, and his lover had given great kindness when his wife had not.

The truth of the bottle: knowing he hovered, always, just short of abuse. The truth of the blade: knowing that every day he did something wrong, because no eye can be perfect, no hand completely stable, no diagnosis infallible, no medication foolproof.

He knew himself better than he ever would say, knew his own flaws and failings, knew his own needs. He knew he was warded by sharp words and sharper wit; that he cut deepest those he admired most. That the loneliness bored into him like maggots in dead flesh. The pain was so bad that all it took sometimes was a flash of warmth, a shared laugh to send his heart spinning out of control, less stable than when he'd been ten years old and so mad for a long-legged girl named Irene that his throat would close up and his heart pound just to see her run across the softball field to catch a fly ball.

He knew right now he was in love with love.

But, he thought, what better thing to be in love with?

Maybe, someday, if he was lucky, the love he loved would be the right love. He hoped so. It was damned lonely in here with his truths.

End Ch. 5


End file.
